Impractical Heroics
by opalish
Summary: PostHBP, Harry has a plan. He also has a concussion and a close encounter of the Slytherin kind. This will not end well.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: HP isn't mine.

So this will be updated sporadically, probably with long intervals between chapters. Don't say I didn't warn you. I'm notoriously bad at finishing chapter fics, so I'm going to try and keep this one relatively short and simple.

There really are no excuses for this, so I won't make any. Instead, let me just say this was sinfully fun to write, and hopefully will be to read.

Beta'd extensively by the luffly Nimbirosa, who is awesomely cool even if she likes Luke Skywalker. (Han Solo all the way, baby!)

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_The first thing any would-be hero should know is that there are two kinds of heroics: practical and impractical. The bold, the brave, the stupidly straightforward – they take the impractical road, generally, armed with the horribly overused rationale of 'Who needs intelligence when you can stick sharp pointy objects into the bad guys'. A word of advice: practical heroics are somewhat less fatal and much less messy. The mind is the best weapon there is, even if you can't whack people with it._

_But whether rash or cautious, the Rules of Heroics generally hold true for all heroes. And the first rule of being a hero is to Never Get Caught. Getting captured by an enemy is, and I cannot stress this enough, a Very Bad Thing – unless, of course, you have some sort of genius plan up your sleeve that'll turn the tables on your unassuming captor. Chances are, though, that if you did get caught, you're of the Impractical School of Heroic Thought, and I wouldn't bet on you against a vicious flobberworm._

_-Hermione Granger's Guide to Practical Heroics_

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Chapter One: In Which Our Hero Needs Saving Yet Torments His Savior, The Stupid Sod

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Harry often thought that in some ways, he was spectacularly ill-suited to being a hero: he didn't like attention, he didn't particularly enjoy his yearly death-defying adventures, and he certainly wasn't philosophical enough to view his role as the wizarding world's savior with any sort of healthy perspective.

Heroes, he felt, ought to have more confidence, ought to make fewer mistakes, and probably weren't supposed to resent the whining multitudes they were expected to save.

But resentment aside, he seemed to be the only person for the job, so he figured he should do his best – and if he got some much-needed revenge in the process, well, that was all the better. (And weren't heroes supposed to be above such petty things as vengeance? Harry rather suspected they were, but he'd never actually thought himself particularly heroic in the first place – which was fortunate, as being petty was one of his few remaining joys in life.)

Mostly, though, it was desperation rather than his sense of duty that drove him to hunt down and destroy Tom Riddle's horcruxes. Deep in his soul, Harry thought desperation a piss-poor excuse for heroics; determination would have been more suiting a Gryffindor in his position, or even grim acceptance of his grand and glorious destiny.

Not that he wasn't determined – or grim, for that matter – but desperation was a much more familiar emotion, and the driving force behind most of his actions. He supposed it explained away a few of his less intelligent decisions over the years – determination and acceptance could easily be tempered by careful thought and planning, but desperation went straight to instinct and that bloody _fight or flight _response he could never quite control.

Desperation helped him survive the Dursleys; desperation led him to confront Voldemort time and again during his time at Hogwarts; now desperation fueled his attempts to destroy the bastard once and for all.

He didn't just _want_ to kill Riddle. Stupid as it sounded, he honestly _needed_ to kill Voldemort if he wanted to survive, if he wanted his friends to live to adulthood. And he'd be pretty damned annoyed if Ron and Hermione kicked the proverbial bucket before they gave in and jumped each other. Harry hadn't put up with their bickering and stubbornness all these years for nothing, after all, and an end to their migraine-inducing unresolved sexual tension was definitely worth fighting for.

Unfortunately desperation, as always, also led to monumental cock-ups. Which explained why Harry was currently cooling his heels in Riddle Manor, unarmed and chained up in the Dark Lord's cellar.

His arms strained, bearing the majority of his weight – his 'Welcome to Hell' torture session had ensured that his legs couldn't do much aside from quiver and quake. Rusty metal cuffs bit harshly into his wrists, and thin rivulets of blood streaked down his arms in disconcertingly cheery Christmas-red streams. Not quite Gryffindor red – too light – but that was all right. He didn't really need any more reminders of what he'd given up in his quest to destroy Voldemort.

Harry sighed, the gusty exhalation making his ribs ache fiercely. At least Ron and Hermione had managed to escape with the last horcrux before Voldemort arrived on the scene, flanked by Death Eaters. Harry'd given them that much.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed since he'd been caught. A day or so, he supposed. It felt more like an eternity, as the torture session had seemed to pass in slow motion, what with the occasional lapse into unconsciousness. And the pain. Pain was bad, too.

The so-called Chosen One was considering attempting to get some sleep when scraping sounds at his door penetrated the thick haze that seemed to have plugged his ears after the third time a Death Eater smashed his head into the floor. A key, he supposed, and wondered vaguely if Round Two of Kick the Potter was about to begin. Fun for the whole Death Eating family!

Instead, the door swung open to reveal a nervous, wide-eyed Draco Malfoy. Harry's eyebrows rose fractionally as he took in the other boy's haggard appearance. The ferret had lost weight and his robes were torn and stained. His eyes were shadowed enough that the skin beneath them almost looked bruised and – most telling of all, with regards to the Slytherin's current mental state – his hair was a mess. He was wringing his hands, his lower lip caught firmly between his teeth as he surveyed his former rival. There was a hint of pity in his gaze that immediately put Harry's nerves on edge.

"Malfoy," Harry croaked. "You look like shit. Good to know some things never change."

Malfoy immediately drew himself up regally, sneered, and retorted, "You hardly look any better, Potter."

"Might want to fix that," Harry suggested, his words slurred but still comprehensible. "Stomp on my face or something. But wait…you've done that already."

The Slytherin mouthed wordlessly for a long moment, then scowled and said, "I suppose I deserved that. But don't expect me to apologize for it." He stepped inside the room more fully, closing the door quietly behind him and silencing the room so no one outside would hear.

"Malfoy," Harry said patiently, though he was inwardly burning with curiosity as to the Slytherin's motives and purpose, "you deserve a hell of a lot worse." He tried to straighten up and glare, but the motion made him feel dizzy and he slumped back down, biting back a groan.

The other boy's nostrils flared and his eyes flashed, and he stomped one foot in aggravation – all in all, he looked like a pale, perturbed horse. Harry half expected him to whinny, or smack him with a frying pan – Petunia, after all, was rather horse-like as well, and she could wield kitchen utensils like some modern-day Amazonian housewife.

In general nastiness and bigotry, at least, Malfoy'd fit right in with the Dursleys. Maybe they'd overcome their hate of each other – Malfoy of muggles and the Dursleys of wizardry – and instead turn all their spite against Harry. United in hatred. It'd be beautiful. Really. Might even inspire a few tears.

"Potter," Malfoy ground out, any sympathy he might once have felt now utterly eradicated, "you might want to be a bit less rude to your rescuer."

Harry stared. When Malfoy didn't burst into laughter or shout "April Fools" (no matter that it was December), Harry…well, continued to stare.

Finally, just as Malfoy was beginning to shift uncomfortably under Harry's astounded gaze, the Gryffindor snorted. "Rescuer?" he repeated skeptically.

"What, you don't think I can?" Malfoy demanded, a pale pink flush stealing over his cheeks. "I'll have you know – "

"No, no, Malfoy," Harry said hurriedly, trying not to look too amused, "I'm sure you'd make a great snake in shining armor. Really. It's just – you might not have noticed, but we're in the middle of Voldemort's stronghold. Somehow, I don't think escape's going to be a hop and a skip through the daisies."

Draco flinched at the sound of the Dark Lord's name, but didn't seem affected beyond that. Harry was reluctantly impressed.

"Look, Potter," the boy snapped, "this isn't a game. He'll kill you, and then you won't be able to kill him, and you have to or we're all fucked."

Succinct, logical, and well thought-out. Harry would have given him an A, if he didn't think approving of Draco Malfoy was physically impossible for any right-thinking Gryffindor.

Not that Harry was exactly a right-thinking Gryffindor. Ron said he had some funny notions about survival and cunning. Hermione said he was too moody and quiet. Harry just figured Life was a bitch and had long ago made him her personal punching-bag, addling his brains enough that it was a miracle he could think at all.

"I kinda figured this wasn't a game, oh, right around the third time Lestrange Crucio'd me," Harry said sarcastically, stumbling over a few syllables – his tongue felt strangely heavy in his mouth, and the edges of his vision were beginning to go grayish. "Besides, I don't need rescuing."

Malfoy's eyes practically bugged out of his head. "Don't need – Potter, have you gone utterly around the bend? You're trussed up in the Dark Lord's cellar like a sacrifice waiting to happen!"

"But you see, Malfoy," Harry said in his best lecturing tones, which were only a pale imitation of Hermione's, "I've spelled myself to explode in…oh, fifteen, twenty seconds. I'm about to go off like a bomb, and I'm taking Riddle and everyone in here with me."

Malfoy gaped at him in utter disbelief, then dove for the floor, covering his head with his arms – as if it would do any good against a Harry-bomb.

The seconds ticked by, Harry counting down in his head. After two minutes had passed, Malfoy slowly looked up, the terror on his face slowly melting into confusion. "What…"

"Yeah, that bomb thing?" Harry said, struggling not to snicker, "I sort of made that up."

"You…you…I…you _bastard!_"

"Uh-huh," Harry agreed, content to take amusement where he could. Another habit, he supposed, that wasn't particularly heroic. Eh. He could blame it on the concussion, if he ever got out of this alive. "So are you going to rescue me or just mess around?"

Harry wondered, as Draco went an unappealing Weasley-hair shade of red, if he could make people implode of anger. Maybe he could try it out on Voldemort. Save the world by being unbearably annoying – the idea had merit.

"I hate you, Potter," Malfoy hissed. "Now shut up and let me save your worthless hide." He stood, brushing himself off in jerky motions that betrayed his anger.

"If my hide was worthless," Harry felt compelled to point out after a moment's solemn reflection, "you wouldn't be trying to save it."

Malfoy let out a wordless cry of rage, and Harry felt that wonderful glow of satisfaction that comes of a bad job well done.

If he couldn't be a hero, then at least he could be a nuisance. What had the fake Moody said so long ago? Constant vigilance. Wait, no – something else. About sticking to your strengths. Harry annoyed half the wizarding world just by existing. Voldemort, he thought wildly, right before the world went fuzzy and then black, wouldn't stand a chance.

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_A good idea for a more intellectual hero, particularly one in captivity, is to practice developing people skills. See if you can't appease your captors somewhat – even if they don't let you go, they might not torture you quite so terribly. And if a rescue is on the horizon, by all means: keep your mouth shut and grab at freedom with both hands. If you must talk, be charming, or at least inoffensive._

_Of course, some people are beyond help…_

_-Hermione Granger's Guide to Practical Heroics_

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If I say pretty-please will you review?


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: HP ain't mine, oy. I make no money. Ever. I am, in fact, a hobo.

This fic is entirely for my own amusement; I offer no apologies. DON'T JUDGE ME. Erm. Beta'd by Dress-Without-Sleeves, so any lingering errors are totally her fault. (Just kidding, don't kill me, please, eurgh, I die, I die, see how I die...) Oh, and thanks for the reviews! Couldn't survive without 'em.

Don't know when I'll update again; assume it'll be before the end of April. (Only a month or so before my birthday! Yayness! So…who wants to buy me expensive presents?) Anywho, this may or may not become HarryDraco. The original plan was for it to be HD, but they keep snarling at each other. My characters never cooperate. Le sigh.

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Chapter Two: How To Infuriate The One Thing Between You and Certain Death (For Dummies)

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_Every hero has his or her own particular helpers. The Mentor, the Side-Kick, the Significant Other – all of these are there to help you, the hero, in one way or another. Heroes are, under no circumstance, to alienate one of the aforementioned helpers. When it comes to teamwork, harmony is obviously the key to success: the people who keep a hero grounded and/or alive are the people he or she should appreciate most. Please keep in mind:_

_1) Mentors do have valuable wisdom to impart, even if they at first seem to be little more than candy-crazed fortune cookies on legs;_

_2) Friends who can remind you that you're merely human are not to be underestimated, no matter how emotionally dense said friends might be;_

_3) Anyone willing to help you out of a dangerous situation should receive proper gratitude; a hero simply cannot take assistance for granted. Baiting one's rescuer is not only in bad taste – it's deplorably stupid._

_4) Most importantly: knowledgeable and bookish friends are to be worshiped, loved, and paid exorbitant amounts for their valuable services to the world._

_-Hermione Granger's Guide to Practical Heroics_

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Somehow – to Harry's considerable surprise – Malfoy had revived him and even healed him up fairly well by shoving what felt like an entire apothecary down his throat. Most of Harry's minor aches and pains had vanished completely, and his broken and fractured bones, while agonizing, were already beginning to knit themselves up. His shoulders were stiff and sore, but at least they didn't feel like they were on fire anymore; his various gashes and cuts had scabbed over, and his head was slowly beginning to clear.

Harry still felt somewhat dazed, though that was mostly because, against all expectations, Malfoy had actually managed to break him out of both his chains and Voldemort's Manor. The Slytherin had had a portkey on hand, a crumbling old book written in a language Harry had never before seen. It brought them both to the outskirts of what looked like a small but prosperous Muggle town.

Harry staggered into Malfoy with a grunted, "Oomph". He didn't move away from his rescuer once he'd regained his balance, and fortunately Malfoy didn't protest. He was certainly doing loads better than he had been back in that cellar dungeon, but his entire body was still throbbing with pain and he felt uncomfortably weak-kneed. If he tried standing on his own – well, Harry was fairly certain that not much actual standing would be involved.

They were on the side of an empty road, near a stand of some rather skimpy snow-laden trees that looked like they'd bend in two at the slightest hint of a breeze. Snow lay in heaps all around them, though the road was mostly clear of it. Harry shivered, and Malfoy pulled out his wand and cast warming charms on both of them. Harry almost thanked the boy, before he was struck by the realization that he was wandless, and thus entirely at Malfoy's mercy.

He shivered again. The sky was just beginning to lighten from midnight black to an early morning navy blue, and Malfoy's hair blazed silver in the pale moonlight, kind of like a unicorn's mane or tail. Harry's lips twitched at the thought, but he managed not to laugh out loud. Malfoy was many things, but he was pretty sure 'pure' wasn't one of them.

"Huh," he muttered in bemusement, forcing himself to focus on more important matters than his former classmate's hair. "You'd think Voldemort would be smart enough to put up anti-Portkey wards."

"He did," Malfoy said, rather breathless from supporting most of Harry's weight. It was decidedly odd, Harry thought, to be leaning on his school rival (he refused to acknowledge that he was, in reality, clinging more than leaning), and even more so to have said rival's arm about his waist. Very, very odd, and more than mildly disturbing. "Severus managed to disrupt them somehow. He'll arrange matters so it looks like I'm solely to blame; better to have one traitor than two. This way he can still be useful."

Harry couldn't help stiffening angrily at the sound of his former teacher's name, but he remained otherwise unresponsive to the revelation that Snape was involved in his rescue. He should've figured – Malfoy wouldn't have risked a rescue on his own. Snape'd probably brewed the healing potions, too, considering how powerful (and disgusting) they'd been. Nasty to the last drop.

Malfoy shot him a curious look, apparently startled by his lack of immediate shouting, screaming, and carrying-on at the news that his escape had been partially due to Severus Snape – a man he supposedly thought evil. "You don't seem very surprised that he would help you," the Slytherin said cautiously.

Harry shrugged one shoulder, and immediately regretted it as pain shot through his damaged torso. "Got a letter from Dumbledore. After the funeral," he muttered haltingly as they began to walk down the road towards the town. Or hobble, in Harry's case. Either way, the effort of movement left him barely able to form full sentences, which was annoyingly embarrassing, given Malfoy's usual eloquence. "Said Snape was following orders."

"Does that mean you won't attempt to hunt him down and kill him, now?" Malfoy asked wryly, an elegant eyebrow quirked in inquiry.

Harry clenched his jaw, then sighed and said, "Won't hunt him down to kill him." Malfoy nodded, satisfied.

"Just hunt him down to kick him," Harry continued darkly, as they paused long enough for him to get his breath back. "Very hard. In the balls. Wonder what he'd sound like as a soprano. Can a soprano's voice be oily? Snape's voice is as oily as his hair. You could use it for lube."

Malfoy blanched, when winced as Harry stumbled over a stone and nearly toppled the two of them over. "Potter," he said, sounding vaguely ill, "you're disturbed."

"Like you're one to talk," Harry said sourly. "At least _I_ don't go prancing around on people's faces."

"You know, a little gratitude might not – "

"I don't owe you anything." Harry's voice was quiet, but no less vicious for it. It occurred to him that he should probably at least wait until he had a wand before angering a fellow wizard, but he'd never let good sense stop him before.

Malfoy ground to a halt and forcefully shoved Harry away. Harry wavered and fell to his knees in the snow, but managed not to collapse completely to the ground. He tried very hard not to vomit at the sudden motion and accompanying pain, but some things can't be helped.

It was entirely accidental that the resulting spew ended up decorating Malfoy's shoes. Really.

"Okay," Harry allowed hoarsely, wiping at his mouth and trembling with the force of his reaction. "Maybe now I owe you. New shoes, if nothing else."

Malfoy looked like he was about to burst into frustrated tears, but manfully (or ferretfully) restrained himself. "Potter," he said in a tight, barely-controlled voice, "we are in a very delicate situation. If you cannot restrain your less appealing tendencies…" He trailed off threateningly, arms crossed over his chest.

"You think I have appealing tendencies?" Harry asked, eyebrows migrating north.

Malfoy closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and said, "One."

"One appealing tendency?"

"Two. Three. Four. Five…" He continued this way until he'd reached ten, by which time Harry had managed to struggle to his feet, using a nearby sign post for support.

"Wow. My appealing tendencies apparently multiply by the second. Now I have nearly a dozen."

"I was counting to ten for patience, Potter," Malfoy snarled, having reached the end of his rope only to find it on fire. "Because you're trying mine."

"Nope," Harry said with mock cheer. "Already tried it and found it guilty. So what's the next step of your masterful plan? I'm assuming you have one, of course."

Malfoy didn't grind his teeth, but he looked like he dearly wanted to. Or perhaps that was the expression he wore when he wanted to kill someone – specifically, someone whose name started with an 'H' and ended with 'arry'.

"The next step," he growled, "is to make our way to a pub where Severus said he would meet us sometime tomorrow. The bartender is supposedly a squib sympathetic to your Order of the Phoenix, and we'll be given a room for a night."

"Fantastic," Harry grumbled, reluctantly letting Malfoy once more support him. He hadn't missed the singular 'room' – really, was escape worth a night spent in close quarters with Malfoy? If it got too bad, he supposed he could just beg Voldemort to take him back. That decided, Harry sighed and said, "Well, let's get on with it."

"Do try to restrain your enthusiasm," Malfoy said crankily, and Harry incredulously thought he saw a hint of a pout.

"Oh, I'm gleeful on the inside."

"I hate you."

"Hate you more."

"Potter!"

"Shouldn't you _not_ be shouting my name when we're on the run from a murderous psychopath? Just a thought." Harry almost grinned as Malfoy once more went red, but the ferret didn't get a chance to respond – a Muggle jogger was approaching them, dripping sweat and panting.

Harry stared at the Muggle and, out of the corner of his eye, saw Malfoy doing the same. Why would anyone be out before dawn in the middle of December, exercising?

The man neared, eying them curiously – he was no doubt startled to see anyone else up and about at such an ungodly hour, particularly two scruffy-looking teenaged boys in robes.

Draco sniffed, his disdain for the Muggle clear. Harry pointed to Malfoy with the hand not wrapped around the other boy's shoulders and helpfully told the jogger, "He wants you to die."

"_Potter!_"

The man hesitated, staring at them, and then suddenly went from an early morning jogger to early morning run-the-hell-away-er in record time. Harry smiled to himself, pleased, as Malfoy sputtered furiously. "You," the blond snarled once he'd regained some measure of coherence, "are the most idiotic, annoying _pest_ ever Sorted, you stupid cow-brained ass!"

"I'm sorry, did you say something? I got caught up looking at that tree."

"I loathe you."

"But…I have appealing tendencies!"

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_When on the run, a hero should never be overly visible. Choose a false name if you must interact with others; do not, no matter what, draw attention to yourself or your identity. This is common sense. If you have more than a pea for a brain, you wouldn't even have to read this passage to know that attention is not welcome when you're being chased down by the enemy. And no, Gryffindors, subtlety and cunning are _not_ synonymous with cowardice. _

_Honestly. You have brains, heroes; _use _them. I promise it won't hurt._

_-Hermione Granger's Guide to Practical Heroics_


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